


Rowing in Eden

by RileyC



Category: Philip Marlowe - Chandler
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 10:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere, sometime, while <i>The Long Goodbye</i> is unwinding, this little episode could have maybe happened, at least if you're wearing slash goggles anyway...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rowing in Eden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fanfromfla](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Fanfromfla).



> Contains spoilers for "The Long Goodbye."
> 
> The poem quoted is by Emily Dickinson.

_Wild Nights--Wild Nights!  
Were I with thee  
Wild Nights should be  
Our luxury!_

It's not that Marlowe's ever forgotten, but the postcard – when it slips free of the rest of the mail jammed in the box and hits the ground face up – the postcard brings the memories flooding back sharp and clear.

He can see Terry Lennox, showing up per usual, but this time wanting to go for a drive. "Anywhere in particular?" Marlowe had asked, and Terry replied with an eloquent sweep of the arm, saying, "Let's see where the night takes us." Marlowe hadn't found that unreasonable. Only later, after, would he admit he'd known the destination all along, as though it had been charted on a map.

The night had taken them up the coast, Los Angeles left far behind them, the world around them growing quiet and still, moonlight gleaming down on the ocean. Only the glimmer of another pair of headlights, coming around a curve, had kept them from feeling all alone in the world.

When necessity found them pulling into a filling station, and Terry climbed out of the car, saying he needed to stretch his legs, Marlowe had figured they had rolled around to the right spot now and Terry would spill whatever he had weighing on his mind. Marlowe had paid for the gas, and cruised along in Terry's wake, easing over onto the side of the road and parking when he'd spotted Terry, leaning back against a tree, the glowing tip of a cigarette bright hot in the night.

Getting out of the car, Marlowe had walked over to him, breathing in the night – breathing in the ocean and the trees, and the taste of Terry's cigarette as he handed it over to Marlowe to share the smoke. Lips sucking where Terry's had just been, Marlowe had pulled the smoke deep, let it out slow, passing the cigarette back to Terry, an electric jolt sparking through him, hot as the cigarette tip, as their fingers brushed.

As if he'd noticed, as if he'd felt it too, Terry's lips quirked with a knowing smile just before they closed on the cigarette again. Later, when everything was over, Marlowe would remember how Terry had tossed the cigarette on the ground when he was done with it, grinding it out under his heel, and Marlowe would wonder if he should have seen that as a warning, and known to brace himself.

And would it have made a difference?

Would he have stayed put and not followed when Terry started down to the beach? Or, knowing, would he still have hiked down there after him, stood watching the sea surging onto the beach, rolling back, the surf pounding against the rocky outcrop where Terry stood … waiting, waiting for Marlowe to climb up beside him, saying, "You didn't have to come all this way to drown yourself," even as Terry pulled him in close and whispered, "Dying's not what's on my mind, Philip," and demonstrating what was as his mouth closed over Marlowe's.

Keep away from the fire and you never get scorched. You stay safe … and cold. Marlowe had wanted the heat, and guessed that answered it all.

That first kiss – intemperate, violent, even – had played like a test of wills. Who had the power, who could yield it so they met on even ground. Marlowe hadn't kept score. He didn't think Terry had, either. There had been too much to feel, to taste, as they pressed into the wet rock, hands grasping, touching – tender, then fierce, then gentle again – as their lips brushed, pressed, tongues caressing. Anxious, frantic fingers tearing at clothes, hands sliding inside to caress along a ribcage, rub a hardened nipple, coaxing harsher breaths, stifled groans, one from the other.

Marlowe had welcomed the strong support of the rock at his back as Terry slid down him, lips brushing a trail from neck to stomach, teeth nipping the taut skin of his belly, his fingers threading through silky, bone white hair as Terry nuzzled into his crotch.

Marlowe remembered how he couldn't keep his hands still. All the while Terry knelt there on the rock, in the sand, lips sucking, tongue stroking, circling, Marlowe's hands had restlessly strayed, first gripping Terry's head, holding him right … there, oh god … then grasping Terry's shoulders hard enough to bruise, straying back to hang onto the rock as if the feeling stirring up in him from Terry's lips and mouth and tongue would rip him away and plunge him into the cold, cold sea.

In the end, pleasure still pulsing through him, it had been his legs that gave out and he'd sank down beside Terry, the two of them leaning into each other, against the rock, as breathless as if the sea had taken them down under its dark, moonlit waves.

_Futile--the Winds--  
To a Heart in Port--  
Done with the Compass--  
Done with the Chart!_

They had found a motel, a little further up the coast, with a vacancy sign and a manager too tired to raise an eyebrow. As ambience went, it had possessed little, but at that stage the most luxurious suite at the Ritz would have been wasted on them. There was darkness, and there was a bed, and that was enough as clothes hit the floor and bodies melded. The sheets had been soft and cool against fevered skin as they wrestled against them, neither pinning the other for long – just seconds enough to steal breath in a kiss, to graze a nipple, flick a tongue against it before sucking hard. The taste of each other – salt and smoke and aftershave – as intoxicating as the finest whiskey.

Marlowe had run a hand down Terry's stomach, loving the feel of muscles fluttering under his caress – excitement churning away in his own belly as his hand, circling Terry's cock, made Terry buck and moan against him. Marlowe'd kissed his mouth, kissed his face, burrowed against his neck to lick that spot, there, again and again as his fingers stroked and squeezed and played Terry along to the crescendo that spilled over Marlowe's hand and onto Terry's thighs.

Resting there in each other's arms, sweat and semen drying on spent bodies as the cool sea breeze fluttered the white curtains. Marlowe had slipped from the bed, promised to be back with a kiss, and disappeared into the bathroom for a warm cloth to wash them both, watching as a matching arousal gazed back at him in Terry's eyes.

Encore then, bodies heated and anxious for release, finding it as Marlowe caressed Terry's spine, kissed the small of his back, heard Terry's grunt of satisfaction and growled back his own as he sank into Terry. Slow, faster, harder, Terry gripping the headboard and groaning pleasure with every thrust; Marlowe's hands closing over Terry's, rubbing up and down his arms, his back, licking, kissing between his shoulder blades, the back of his neck as he moved… Both going absolutely still, frozen in the moment, as release came, surging out of Marlowe and into Terry. Bodies collapsing then, falling back to the mattress, breathless, able to do nothing but grin at each other in the dark, fumble for each other, each pulling the other closer, heads resting on one pillow, tangled in each other as sleep beckoned and pulled them in.

***

In the morning, Marlowe had awakened by himself, found the sheets cold, found Terry waiting in the car.

No words had been spoken, not then, not later, and then Terry was gone, lost to him – twice.

Now?

In his house, Marlowe examines the postcard. It's the cove where it started, where they shared that first wild kiss. On the back, in handwriting he's surprised he still recognizes…

_Rowing in Eden--  
Ah, the Sea!  
Might I but moor--Tonight--  
In Thee!_

It's postmarked yesterday – and not from down Mexico way.

Marlowe knows he'd be a fool to go. Knows it can't end in any way that's good.

Later, though, when he's behind the wheel of his car and pointing it north, his spirit has never felt lighter.

_…end…_


End file.
